This Is Not Over
by ElderSprace
Summary: You know the story of how the Newsies won the strike, but there's much more to it: the untold story of Spot Conlon and Race. Based on the Disney musical. (Disclaimer: we do not own Newsies nor do we own the characters that appear in the musical.)
1. Chapter 1

It was as if there was an unspoken agreement amongst all of New York that every Newsie had his own neighborhood to sell papers in, though several Newsies could be found selling in one area. It wasn't typical for people to steal another's spot, but trading off, both temporarily and permanently, was common. Occasionally a Newsie would abandon his spot due to a lack of newspaper sales because the customers caught on to the Newsie's frequent "stretching of the truth" about the content of the papers and stopped buying them, they weren't interested, or there weren't enough people in the area who had enough money.

Race had taken the alleyways and back streets on his way back to the lodging house to avoid the crowds in the main roads. The walk back from the Lower East Side was longer, but Race didn't mind. He enjoyed the long, summer days, despite the sun beating down on his back. The New York atmosphere was always more relaxed during this time of year, and not as many people seemed to be in a rush so the crowds were even bigger than usual. About forty minutes passed before he turned onto the street where the Newsies lodging house was. A few older boys were leaning against the sides of the surrounding buildings, cigars in hand. A figure appeared in the doorway of the lodging house and called out to Race, "Where ya been, ya bum? I been waitin' here forever."

Race turned his head and let his eyes land on the figure in the doorway, Stitch, the infamous Manhattan Newsies leader. Race raised his eyebrows expectantly as he advanced towards the leader. All the boys saw Stitch as an average Newsie, but knew he was much more than that because of how he acted. The boy had platinum blonde hair and complementary sharp green eyes. He stood a little bit higher than the others in the Manhattan region. He had straight posture, probably a habit he got as a child, which added to his height. To the boys, Stitch was firm and fair, but occasionally he let his biased side take over. Regardless of his unyielding nature, Stitch was a good leader to the Manhattan Newsies and kept them in order when needed. His future replacement would have to be someone stellar, but for now, Stitch was not leaving anytime soon so no one was worried about having to find a new leader.

Stitch's eyes had a familiar glint in them, suggesting his teasing manner, but Race could tell that Stitch had serious business he wanted to take care of with him.

"I have to talk to you about something important." Stitch turned to walk back inside the lodging house, indicating Race to follow him. Stitch headed toward the back stairwell and he climbed the four flights up, Race right behind him, to the rooftop where he went when he wanted to have some time by himself. When they reached the top, Stitch and Race stood in silence, both taking deep breaths after their quick trek up the stairwell. Finally Race spoke.

"So what'd ya want to talk to me about?" Race asked, his breathing finally evening out.

Stitch stuffed his hands into his pocket before pulling out a cigar. Putting it in his mouth, he dug around for a lighter in his pockets. When he did, he cupped one hand around the end and let the flame lick the end of the cigar. Stitch took a deep breath of the now illuminated cigar before offering Race once, who declined. Shrugging, Stitch took another long drag on his cigar. Pulling it out of his mouth, and blowing a few rings in the air, he paused before speaking.

"You've seen the new kid." Stitch blew a puff of smoke. "He's hopeless. I'm gonna teach 'im a few ropes of sellin' papes. That bein' said, ya bein' transferred to a different selling area startin' tomorrow until the kid knows how ta sell properly," Stitch explained.

"How does helpin' some hopeless little kid involve me havin' ta sell somewhere else?" Race crossed his arms, his eyebrows raised.

Stitch responded after blowing another ring. "I need ya ta take over for me in my spot 'cause I'll be wit' him." Race frowned slightly and his mouth opened as if he were about to argue, but Stitch spoke before he could. "You gots a good spot. It's close ta home so I figured it'd be a good place for this kid to start. I don't wanna have 'im get lost or anythin', ya know?" He gave Race a hard stare.

Race was tempted to glare back but decided against it. He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down in defeat, sighing. "Yeah, um, okay. I'll do it."

Stitch nodded. "You's a good kid."

Race looked up and shrugged. "So where is it I'll be selling?

"Prospect Park." Stitch gazed out at the city's skyline as he blew another ring of smoke.

Race's eyes widened in shock. "But...but that's in Brooklyn."

"Yeah, so?" Stitch gave him a lopsided grin. "You scared or somethin'?"

Race crossed his arms and tried to stand a little taller. "I ain't scared o' nothin'!" he snapped, glowering at Stitch. "Just confused why you'd be sellin' in a whole 'nother city."

Stitch grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. "Let's jus' say me and Chip have an understanding," he responded with a note of finality.

Race bit his lip, wondering what this "understanding" with the Brooklyn leader might be. From the stories the older boys told about Chip, Race concluded that he was a tough, but fair, leader, so Race figured anything that Chip agrees to probably benefits both him or Brooklyn altogether and the other Newsie equally. Race wasn't sure who benefited from Stitch selling in Prospect Park or what the other side of the deal was, but he was impressed that Chip had deigned to interact and even strike up an agreement with Stitch since he rarely interacted with any Newsies outside of Brooklyn.

Race suddenly became aware that someone was talking.

He'd been so lost in his thoughts that he didn't realize Stitch had been speaking to him about selling the next day.

"...so it should take ya a little over an hour to get there."

Race blinked. "Uhh...okay."

Stitch furrowed his eyebrows. "You sure you can handle walkin' all the way down there?"

Race rolled his eyes. "I'm almos' thirteen. I think I can handle myself."

"Alright then. And be careful o' them Brooklyn boys. Don't try ta pick any fights otherwise you's dead, and if anyone tries ta give ya a rough time, jus' say you's sellin' in my place. You got that?" Stitch pointed his cigar at Race.

"Yep." Race's stomach growled. He realized just how hungry he was.

"Okay. Now go on down wit' all the other fellas an' find somethin' to eat. I'm jus' gonna stay up here a little longer."

Race obeyed Stitch and made his way back down the stairwell. When his feet hit the ground, he turned his head and began looking for any of his fellow Newsies. He spotted a few of them over by the Lodging House entrance and decided to join them.

"'ey kid," one of the boys, a frail red-head named Patches, greeted Race. "Where's ya headin'?"

"Came to see if anyone's got food. I'm starved."

A boy with dark brown hair who was standing nearby turned and said, "No one's got no food here. A bunch o' the fellas went out to drink an' I was just about to get some food myself. You both could tag along if ya like."

Race recognized the Newsie who went by the name of Jack Kelly. He was young, about Race's age, maybe a little older, but he'd already made a name for himself as one of the best sellers in Manhattan. Jack had been one of Race's first friends when he joined the Newsies about a year ago, and Race felt the most comfortable around him.

"Yeah sure, but I don't got much money wit' me so it's gotta be cheap," Race responded.

"How much ya got?"

Race dug around in his pockets and came up with a nickel and two pennies. Jack looked at the coins in Race's palm and nodded. He turned his attention toward Patches.

"You comin' too, kid?"

Patches shrugged, a miserable expression on his face. "Nah, don't have enough to pay fo' no food now."

"I think I gots enough to cover all three of us," replied Jack as he stuck a hand in his pocket. He pulled out a few nickels and some pennies. "Let's see..." he murmured. "Five, ten, fifteen, sixteen...nineteen cents," he announced.

Race's mouth fell open and Patches whistled and laughed, "You's like one o' them rich folk!"

"It's called savin' then spendin'," Jack explained.

"And actually selling all ya papes," Race commented with a smile. One look from Patches sent the smile away though. Everyone knew that Patches had been selling in a rough spot, hence his lack of money compared to the other boys. Stitch had been advising Patches to change his selling area for almost a month now, but he was too stubborn to give in.

Jack elbowed Race's ribcage and gave the shorter boy a glare and a head shake as if to say "stop it". At that, Race bit the inside of his cheek and took a small step away from the group, the tension and Jack's glare guilting him.

"C'mon Patches, join us. I'll pay, no debt. Think ofs it as a treat," Jack said, hoping to ease the tension surrounding them.

For a moment, it seemed as if Patches was going to decline the offer but at last he sighed and grumbled, "Ah, fine, wha' the hell."

Jack grinned at Patches and clapped him on the shoulder. "Attaboy, Patch."

Jack glanced up at the late afternoon sky. "We should get goin' now if we want ta get back at a decent hour. 'Specially you, Race." He gave him a knowing look.

"Hey, I'm almos' as old as you. You don' need to be worryin' about me anymore than yaself," Race retorted.

Jack's face morphed into a puzzled expression. "This has nothin' to do wit' age. I'm sayin' you's gonna be walkin' a long way tomorrow which means you's gotta be up earlier than the rest of us."

"You know?" Race raised an eyebrow.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Course I know. You didn' really think Stitch woulda come up with an idea like that, did ya?"

"Um..." Race stared at him.

"Stitch's heart's in the righ' place but the fella ain't always so bright. He was goin' ta make that poor kid walk all the way ta Brooklyn wit' him to sell instead!" Jack chuckled, shaking his head, and started walking down the street, Race and Patches following suit. "So a few days ago I says to him he could jus' go 'head and trade places with ya, says that you wouldn' mind, and it saves him an hour anyways, so he goes and meets wit' Chip ta make sure he's ok with you sellin' in Brooklyn instead and he obviously is."

When they reached the end of the street, Jack turned onto the main street, opposite of the back road Race had traveled by when he'd returned from his selling spot.

As they weaved their way through the horde of people packing the street, Race shouted ahead to make himself heard, "So where's we goin', Jack?"

Jack turned his head to look at him and called back, "It's called Jacobi's Deli. Not much farther." His focus shifted past Race and he stopped a moment to crane his neck and squint into the crowd. "Where's Patch?"

Race looked behind him and was momentarily surprised that Patches was not there. "I thought he was right behind me. Ah, wait," he said, catching a glimpse of a mess of bright red hair bobbing its way closer to them, "found 'im."

Jack continued searching the crowd, still unsure of where Patches was, but he didn't have to wait long to find out. A few seconds later Patches squeezed through a gap between two nicely dressed men who seemed revolted at the sight of such a dirty, ragged boy, though Patches was oblivious to their disgust.

"Ya couldn' 'ave waited for me?" Patches demanded, annoyed.

Jack ignored his question and grabbed Patches by the arm and dragged him away from the rich men, not wanting to start a fight in the streets.

"C'mon! If we don't hurry we's gonna get back late," Jack said, smiling awkwardly at Patches and Race.

The trio continued their trip to Jacobi's Deli, Jack leading the way while also making sure they didn't run into more rich people. The rest of the walk was silent amongst the three. Jack smiled as he saw the familiar restaurant in the distance. He pointed at the deli saying, "It's right there."

Patches peeked inside the window and saw how the vast majority of the restaurant was empty, the lunch rush not striking yet. He saw a few other Newsies inside at the wooden tables minding their own business as they ate their lunch.

"Seems empty," Patches commented. Jack laughed a bit at the reaction.

"It mays not be the most popular of restaurants, but it is wit' the Newsies 'cause it ain't that expensive. We's the only thing keepin' it runnin'," Jack explained.

"Then 'ow come I never heard of it?" Patches's challenge was met with silence as the other two boys tried to avoid making eye contact with him. Race was beginning to regret Jack inviting the kid. He knew Patches had been having rough sales lately, but in his opinion, that wasn't a good enough excuse for his sour attitude.

Race grabbed the door and walked in, Jack and Patches following suit. Jacobi's Deli was a fair sized restaurant with three main wooden tables in the center of the room. The walls were white with contrasting wood paneling on the lower half. In the front of the restaurant were open windows, flyers dangling in front and in the corners of the window sill. In the back was the kitchen where a chef or two would occasionally work, but mainly Mr. Jacobi ran the restaurant since it was as quiet as it was, even in the lunch rush.

Mr. Jacobi, a middle aged man whose gray hair was starting to bald, glanced up from wiping a table at the sound of the door closing behind the three boys.

"Ah, Jack Kelly, good to see you, son. What can I get for you and your, uh..." he studied Race and Patches for moment, "friends today, huh?"

"We'll all have the regular, Mr. Jacobi, sir." Mr. Jacobi nodded and disappeared through a door into what Race assumed was the kitchen. Jack plopped down in a seat at the middle table. Race and Patches sat down on either side of him.

Race shot him a questioning look and asked, "What's the regular?"

"I ain't tellin' you, jus' wait and see." Jack gave him a lopsided grin.

"I don' care what it is. Jus' betta be good," grumbled Patches.

Race clenched his mouth shut and resisted the urge to point out that whatever was served here was undoubtedly much better than the measly food scraps Patches had been living off the past few months.

The three of them sat in silence, Patches glaring at his lap with his arms crossed, Jack slouching in his seat and staring at some distant point through the window of the deli, and Race glancing at the other two waiting for someone to make conversation. Once he realized no one was going to talk he resigned himself to drumming his fingers on the table, his head propped up on his other hand. The deli was quiet with the exception of the soft chatter amongst the Newsies seated at the table to Race's left and had a stagnant atmosphere about it as compared to the hustle and bustle of the streets outside. He heard muffled shouts and laughter through the window, and a second later, a group of nine or ten boys who looked to be in their late teens sprinted past the deli.

Race sighed and prayed for someone to say something, _anything_. He hated nothing more than silence and normally he would've been the one to initiate a conversation but he had nothing to talk about at the moment.

He drummed his fingers faster and louder to fill the silence until Patches finally spoke.

"Shut up before I cut off ya fingers!" he exploded.

Race stared at him along with Jack and the few other Newsies in the deli. Patches's cheeks flushed a bright red, but no one noticed because at that moment Mr. Jacobi emerged from the kitchen with three plates of food.

Race sat forward in his seat, eager to finally eat. Mr. Jacobi placed a sandwich in front of him that was made of a few slices of ham, Swiss cheese, lettuce, and tomatoes between two pieces of rye bread.

"And that'll be five cents each," Mr. Jacobi informed them.

Race was about to reach into his pocket to pull out the five cents when Jack said, "I'll be payin' for all threes of us."

Jack scooped the change out of his pockets and counted out fifteen cents. He dropped the coins into Mr. Jacobi's outstretched hand and grinned up at him. "Thank youse very much, sir."

Mr. Jacobi walked away, and Race looked at Jack. "This...looks so much better than the old leftovas I usually gets."

"Then what's ya waitin' for, kid? Dig in!" Jack exclaimed.

Patches was already wolfing down his sandwich and Jack's full attention was now on his.

Race picked up his sandwich with both hands and took a large bite into the best food he'd ever had in his life.


	2. Chapter 2

Mornings in New York were always cool, especially for those outside. The sun would lazily rise in the morning, letting the nice air and dark sky from the night linger around for a little while longer. Stitch had always appreciated the serene feel that morning also brought in the Lodging House. Moments when the living quarters were completely silent were rare and only happened in the early hours of a new day. The only noise that would ring about during this time was some snoring from sleeping Newsies or unintelligible murmurs from the selected few who spoke in their sleep.

Out of habit, Stitch woke up that morning early as if he were going to sell in his typical spot in Brooklyn. It took him a few seconds as he gradually got out of bed for him to realize that Race would be taking over his selling spot for a couple weeks and that he wouldn't need to wake up as early as usual. The thought made him smile a bit.

Taking a peek outside a nearby window, Stitch saw that orange and pink were breaking into the navy sky, a signal that the sun was rising and a new day was dawning. Had it been any other day, the Manhattan leader would be getting ready, perhaps taking a shower if he needed a good wake up. Today he allowed himself to be slower and take his time and give the rushing to Race who would need to be up earlier if he wanted to get his paper at a decent hour. The selling spot wasn't exactly close to the Manhattan lodging house. It took about an hour and a half on foot for someone who knew their way, but for Race, being unfamiliar with the area, he could take longer just to get there.

Stitch walked through the aisle of beds until he stopped in front of the one that held Race. The boy was asleep and curled up in his blankets, his mouth slightly open.

Stitch bent down so that he was level with Race and, mindful of the other sleeping Newsies, shook him gently.

Race made a soft grunting noise and rolled over on his bed away from Stitch.

"Race, get up!" Stitch hissed.

Race didn't move.

Stitch rolled his eyes and sighed. _Okay. Be that way,_ he thought.

Stitch grabbed the blanket and yanked them off the boy.

Race's eyes shot open and he rolled onto his back, stretching and rubbing his eyes.

"Fine, you win," he grumbled. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat for a moment as he yawned.

"Any day now," Stitch teased.

Race glared at him and slowly got to his feet. He took in the sight of all the undisturbed Newsies still in bed, wishing he were one of them.

Stitch tossed the blanket still in his hands onto the bed. "You best be goin' soon or you's goin' to be late."

Race simply rolled his eyes at Stitch. If he knew he had to get up this early just to sell newspapers, Race might have reconsidered and retaliated with a no last night. But he hadn't known and he couldn't back out, not now at least.

With one last longing look towards his bed, the thought of sleep picking at his mind, Race walked away from Stitch and went to get ready for the day. Nothing major was needed to be nice enough for the impending outdoors, just changing from his night wear to some more appropriate outdoor clothes so he could withstand the heat, combing his hair to make it more presentable, putting on some comfortable shoes, counting out fifty cents to buy his regular one hundred papers and carefully sticking the money in his pocket, the usual. Race would have done more, maybe he would have eaten or brushed his teeth, but the look Stitch gave him and the nod of his head at the stairs reminded him that his time was limited. Race grabbed his hat, put it on his head, and walked outside of the lodging house, eyes still tired from sleep and legs sore from his selling yesterday.

As soon as Race stepped out, he looked both ways, though he doubted any cars or wagons would be on the road at such an ungodly hour. Seeing that no one was out to run him over, he began walking towards the Manhattan distribution center a few blocks down.

The journey took just over five minutes and as Race approached the Printing House Square, the wagons that delivered the newly printed papers were pulling in. Mr. Wiesel, a seedy looking older man who always seemed to be in a bad mood in Race's opinion, was slumped over the counter, apparently asleep, at his position behind the newspaper distribution center window. He and the man seated next to him, Frederick, were in charge of distributing the papers to the Newsies and collecting the money from them.

Frederick, who was awake, smiled at Race when he neared the window. "You're here awfully early, kid."

"Had a temporary change in sellin' spot. It's a longer walk." Race grinned.

He leaned against the counter and rapped against the glass. "Hey, Weasel!"

Mr. Wiesel's head jerked up and Race could see his eyes were still heavy with sleep. The man blinked a few times and found himself looking at Race through the window who was giving him his most charming smile.

"Oh, sorry, did I wake ya?" Race smirked. Mr. Wiesel glared at the boy, obviously not appreciative of being woken up so suddenly.

"Wha' do ya want, kid?"

"Hundred papes, the usual."

Mr. Wiesel addressed Frederick. "Hundred for the kid."

Race reached into his pocket and laid out fifty cents, pushing the coins across the counter towards Mr. Wiesel. Frederick reached down to gather one of the bundles of one hundred newspapers and untied the string holding the papers together. He held them out for Race to take.

"Don't get lost, kid. Have a good day."

Race accepted the newspapers in Frederick's outstretched arms and shoved them into his bag.

"Thank youse, Mr. Frederick, sir. Later, Weasel!" Race called behind him, laughing.

* * *

Race had no problem finding the Brooklyn Bridge. Few people were out at that hour so he didn't have to weave through any crowds, and he'd have to be blind not to be able to find it eventually. He crossed it with no trouble either, though he was slightly nervous since he'd never dared to step foot into Brooklyn territory before.

Once he arrived to the other side of the bridge, he felt completely lost. The streets were unfamiliar to him, the buildings were strange, and he regretted not listening more closely to Stitch the past night in terms of directions.

After wandering the streets for a solid ten minutes with no idea where he was going, he spotted a Newsie leaning against the brick wall of a nearby alley out of the corner of his eye. He considered his options. If he asked the kid, who looked much older than him and was obviously Brooklyn-bred, for directions, he had a chance of actually finding Prospect Park, but it seemed more likely that he'd be soaked. After a quick mental debate, he decided to risk approaching the Newsie.

As Race drew closer to the other boy, he noticed his palms were shaking, so he stuffed them into his pockets to hide his nervousness. The Newsie had already seen him approaching, but Race saw no change to his relaxed stance. At least it didn't appear that he would jump Race anytime soon.

"Um...hi," Race said.

The older boy raised an eyebrow at him. "You lost or somethin', kid?"

Race gulped. "Actually, I...yes, I am."

The Newsie studied Race who was feeling very awkward. Finally the boy spoke. "You're not Brooklyn."

Seeing that although he noticed this fact but still did not seem keen on beating Race up, Race felt more at ease. "I'm from Manhattan, one a Stitch's boys. I'm, uh, filling in for him at Prospect Park. If I can find it."

"You's fillin' in for Stitch, huh? I don' recall him mentionin' a fill in," the older boy mused.

"Why would he tell you anythin'?"

The Newsie snorted. "Kid, do ya know who you's talkin' to?"

Race was taken aback but wasn't given the chance to respond.

"Course ya don'. The name's Chip, kid. Yours?"

The Newsie suddenly seemed a lot more dangerous than Race had first observed even though he wasn't too much taller than Race, but that may have been due to the newfound discovery of his identity. Being so close to the leader of Brooklyn, Race could tell that Chip was pretty well built in his upper body. He made a mental note to never get on the wrong side of him unless he wanted to die. Chip's jet black hair was sticking out beneath his cap and falling into his eyes which were almond shaped and colored a menacing dark brown.

"I'm Race. And since you's leader and all you should be able ta tell me how ta get ta Prospect Park, right?" Race was surprised at how comfortable and steady his voice sounded considering he was speaking to the infamous Chip.

Chip laughed. "You's got nerve, kid. I like you. Don' do anythin' to change my mind about that now. So ya want ta get to Prospect Park? I ain't goin' to take ya there myself or anythin' but I'll tell ya how to get there. Listen good, okay?"

Race nodded.

"So first you's goin' to go down this street ova here on your right..."

* * *

Spot stopped walking and placed his newspapers on the ground so that he could rub the sleep out of his eyes. Although he didn't wake up early just to sell papers, he still woke up early naturally. Spot never knew why he woke up as early as he did, so he just learned to accept it. As a result, he nearly mastered the art of feigning sleep. If the other Brooklyn Newsies saw that Spot was awake at an early hour, they would force him to get up and sell, so pretending to still be sound asleep deemed helpful in the early morning situations.

With Brooklyn being as vast as it was and with an abundance of Newsies, the boys got up at different hours. The Brooklyn Newsies Lodging House, to say the least, was hardly ever quiet. Life seemed to run through the House constantly with boys staying up late gambling, drinking, smoking, or fighting, and continued into the morning with the hustle and bustle of getting ready, plus the occasional fight while doing so. It's no wonder how the Brooklyn Newsies could sleep through practically anything, being a deep sleeper was the only way you could sleep there.

When Spot felt more alert, he picked up his newspapers and continued his way towards Prospect Park, his usual selling area. He was almost there, but it took him longer than usual because he kept yawning and having to rub his eyes to stay awake. He hadn't slept well last night due to the frequent nightmares that would plague him. Every time Spot would have a nightmare, it would be the same theme every time. He would relive one of his childhood memories but in a distorted way. The nightmare and reality would be parallel until something would be changed in the nightmare, taking the memory down a dark corridor. Some were worse than others, but in the very worst Spot would wake up with perspiration down his back and his breath uneven. He wouldn't dare to tell anyone that he had a nightmare though. It took him a while to even get respect from his elder Newsies, so saying that he had been scared by a dream, even at his young age, would send whatever respect he had out the window. It was a risk he wasn't willing to take, so he kept his feelings to himself.

For being the middle of summer, Spot couldn't deny that it was a nice morning for selling, but he knew it would warm up to unpleasant temperatures during midday like it always did. Despite him not being a morning person, he did enjoy the beauty morning held. He would never admit this to anyone though. Everything he kept to himself would lose him his respect if he spoke them aloud. That's why he would never explain to anyone the real reason why he chose to sell in Prospect Park. He would give short answers about how he was forced or because there's always a constant influx of people, but he was really compelled to the popular park because of the scenery. It was appealing to the eye at all times of the day and it intrigued the young Brooklyn Newsie.

Usually Spot would sell there and only have one other seller in the area, the leader of the Manhattan Newsies, Stitch, but Stitch kept his distance and took the parts of the park Spot didn't sell at. Stitch understood that they both needed to have money to live and if they both were breathing down each other's necks trying to sell more than the other, it wouldn't help either boy. Maybe that's why Spot looked up to Stitch so much. He was fair, understanding, and open-minded, something Chip sometimes lacked.

When Spot finally got to Prospect Park, he noticed something was different. It took him a minute to realize it, but when he heard a voice calling out an exaggerated version of the day's headline, he knew what it was. The voice was too high to be Stitch's, but the accent showed that it was someone not from Brooklyn. It was easy to reach the conclusion of the situation: someone outside of Brooklyn decided to steal his selling spot.

It took Spot about five seconds to locate the speaker of the unfamiliar voice. His nightmare forgotten, he stalked over to the stranger, a boy about his own height with dirty blond hair peeking out beneath his gray cap, whose back was turned to Spot.

"Hey! What d'ya think ya doin' here?" Spot demanded.

The Newsie turned sharply to face Spot and wrinkled his nose.

"What does it look like, huh?" he asked, gesturing to the paper he was holding in his hand. "Who're you?"

"The guy whose spot you're takin'," Spot answered.

The boy crossed his arms and regarded Spot coldly. "I ain't takin' no one's spot 'cept Stitch's. Eva heard of 'im, kid?"

So the kid was Manhattan.

"I'd have ta be dead not to." Spot's eyes narrowed. "You's takin' Stitch's spot?"

"Ain't none of your business. Now go away. I'm tryin' to sell papes 'ere." The Newsie turned his attention away from Spot, who was slightly annoyed at this, and resumed calling out the morning's headlines to the few passerby.

"It is if ya think you's sellin' here." Spot raised his voice to be heard above the other's shouts. "Stitch don't sell around this part 'cause I sell here. Not that I believe you's actually standin' in for him."

The boy sighed. "Well, I am, and if ya think I'm lyin' go ask Chip. He'll set ya straight."

Spot opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it. If the kid was referring him to Chip then he must be telling the truth, not that this fixed the problem of the outsider invading his area and taking his customers. Just as he was about to make this point, the other Newsie spoke.

"Wait, what d'ya mean Stitch don' sell here? This is Prospect Park, ain't it?" Spot found the puzzled expression on the boy's face relatively amusing.

"Yeah, but he usually sells on the north end ova that way." Spot pointed down the road. "This is my area." He clutched the sack of newspapers hanging at his side and drew himself to his full height.

"Oh." The boy awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. "Well, I'll go there then. Uh, thanks for the help, I guess."

Spot nodded in response, and the boy started walking in the direction that Spot had indicated was the north end. Before he knew what he was doing Spot called after the Newsie. "Hey, kid!" The boy stopped walking to turn around and look at him. "What's ya name?"

The boy furrowed his eyebrows and responded hesitantly, though it sounded more like a question. "I go by Race...?"

"If I eva catch ya tryin' to sell in my spot again, Race, I'll soak ya."

Spot could tell that Race wasn't sure if he was joking or not and didn't wait for his response. He turned his back on Race and headed to the street corner where he normally stationed himself. The stream of New Yorkers had grown since Spot had first arrived that morning, and Spot predicted that the morning crowd would bring plenty of customers. The thought made him smile. Yes, today was going to be a good day for him.


End file.
